The Ghost From U.N.C.L.E.
by Lorlie
Summary: Illya is apparently killed in the line of duty. "The Crisis Apparition From U.N.C.L.E." seemed to lack a certain panache.


THE GHOST FROM U.N.C.L.E. AFFAIR  
  
  
  
Los Angeles County, CA  
  
Uncharacteristic gray-black clouds shrouded the night sky over southern California. Thunder rumbled and echoed among the steep, rocky hills overlooking the "city of angels" and a light patter of rain had begun to fall.  
  
Crouched in a thicket of scrubby brush, Illya Kuryakin ignored the distraction of the weather and concentrated on the single guard patrolling in front of an ornate gate across the road. The slight, young Russian was a member of the U.N.C.L.E., an international agency tasked with the enormous responsibility of creating and preserving world peace. Their chief adversary, a group known by the acronym THRUSH, was persistently bent on world domination. To that end, they were currently in the midst of developing yet another in a long series of super weapons.  
  
Three weeks of research, stakeouts, and cloak-and-dagger skulking had led Kuryakin to believe that their lab was behind that gate, inside a dilapidated mansion built decades ago by a silent film star and since fallen into disrepair.  
  
Fleetingly he wished for back up, but for once the young Russian was on his own. Napoleon Solo, the brash, charming American who had been his partner for the last fifteen months, had been held back in New York on high level business.  
  
In the darkness of the bushes Illya shrugged to himself lightly. His task, after all, was a simple one. He had to penetrate the grounds, get inside the mansion, destroy the lab and blow up the weapon.  
  
If he could get out alive again afterwards, that would be a good thing, too.  
  
Luck, it seemed, was on his side. He had parked his car a quarter of a mile down the steep, winding road and managed to sneak up undetected. And the guard at the gate couldn't have been more perfect. Not only was he the same general size and build as Kuryakin, but his hair even glinted gold in the intermittent flashes of lightening.  
  
The Russian moved as lightly as a cat, rustling the bushes less than the rising wind. He made his way to one side of the gateway, waited until the guard's back was turned, and sprinted daringly across the road to take shelter in still more brush at the base of a high stone wall. The guard reached the other side of the gate and reversed his direction. His steps were measured and listless and his bored expression clearly showed that his mind was elsewhere.  
  
He turned his back on Illya one last time and the Russian rose from the bushes and paced swiftly after him. Three quick steps took him up right behind his adversary. He tapped the guard lightly on the shoulder.  
  
"Excuse me . . .."  
  
The Thrushman spun and tried to bring his gun to bear, but his turn brought him forcefully into Kuryakin's iron-hard fist. He slumped into unconsciousness and Illya quickly dragged him into the cover of the ever-so- useful underbrush. Five minutes later the Russian emerged, dressed in a slightly too big Thrush uniform. He unlocked the gate with the guard's key and disappeared inside.  
  
Fifteen minutes later he re-appeared at a run. Floodlights and alarms were blossoming into life behind him and bullets kicked up the gravel around his feet as half a dozen pursuers took up the chase. With an ominous rumble the ground bucked beneath them, causing Kuryakin to stagger and fall. His pursuit, closer to the source, was dashed to the ground.  
  
The ruined old mansion exploded in a flash of blinding light and debris rained down on Thrush and U.N.C.L.E. agents alike. When the fireworks settled Kuryakin looked back and noted with pleasure that no one was in any condition to follow him. Sore but unharmed, he pulled himself to his feet and trotted down the hill to retrieve his car.  
  
With an immense feeling of satisfaction he slid behind the wheel of the non- descript Ford and started it rolling down the treacherous road. It was raining harder now, the rare precipitation mixing with the heavy deposits of oil on the road and making the hairpin turns doubly treacherous. He slowed down and hugged the side of the road as emergency vehicles raced past. When they were out of sight he sped up slightly, mindful of the ravine dropping away sharply on his right.  
  
Taking a silver pen from his pocket, he twisted the end and pulled out a small antenna, transforming it into a tiny but powerful transceiver.  
  
"Open channel D."  
  
"Channel D open, Waverly here."  
  
"Kuryakin, Sir. My mission is accomplished and I am on my way home."  
  
"Very good Mr. . . ah . . . Kuryakin. Any difficulties?"  
  
"No Sir, I . . . . " He felt the movement more than he heard it. He dropped the communicator gripped the wheel and tried to brake on the wet, oily pavement, ducking instinctively as a black-clad body came at him out of the back seat.  
  
It was the guard off the gate, wearing the clothes Illya himself had discarded. He must have come around and decided that the best way to redeem himself with Thrush was to deliver up the U.N.C.L.E. agent who had gotten past him. They grappled fiercely but the fight was brief. In a matter of seconds the speeding car had gone out of control. Illya saw the curve coming up and knew without thinking about it that they were not going to make it around.  
  
With a burst of desperate strength he pushed his opponent to the passenger's side of the car and yanked loose his seatbelt. The impact with the guardrail threw him into the steering wheel hard enough to blur his vision. It didn't slow the car at all. As they went over he forced the door open and tried to leap for the roadway, pushing off the car as it dropped away beneath him.  
  
He didn't make it.  
  
The car fell and he fell after it, bouncing and rolling down a rocky incline. He had left his communicator open and as he fell he could hear his superior's commanding British tones.  
  
"Mr. Kuryakin, are you there? Mr. Kuryakin, answer me!"  
  
The car exploded on impact, almost as impressive a blast as the one the Russian had himself engineered only minutes before. Illya carried the two impressions, Waverly's voice and the exploding car, with him into unconsciousness. He was out before his body slowed almost to a stop and then fell once more, almost gently, into a narrow ravine completely hidden by chaparral bushes.  
  
  
  
1 New York City, NY  
  
Illya Kuryakin walked quietly down the hallway leading to Alexander Waverly's office. He felt odd and confused and he couldn't exactly remember what he was doing here or when he'd come in. As he paused uncertainly in the reception area Napoleon Solo walked up. Illya nodded to his partner, hoping for a chance to talk to him alone.  
  
When the two had first met they had mixed like oil and water. Kuryakin was young and alone in a society where he was all too often disliked, even by his multi-national co-workers, because he was a Russian. Faced with open mistrust and veiled threats he had retreated behind a cold exterior, hiding his vulnerability and an almost crippling shyness behind an aloof and arrogant façade. The open-natured and outgoing Solo had resented being paired with him and for a time their mutual animosity was an office by- word. In time, however, as they worked together, Solo began to see through the charade. He had made the effort to get to know his difficult partner and had never had cause to regret it.  
  
Under Solo's tutelage Kuryakin was beginning to learn to fit in, but as yet he hadn't gotten bold enough to invest in any other relationships. Thus it was that his partner was not only his best friend, but, literally, his only friend. If anyone could help him figure out what was going on – if anyone would help him – Napoleon would.  
  
Just now, however, Napoleon ignored him, pausing instead to flirt with Waverly's secretary. She favored him with a small, sympathetic smile. "Go on in, Napoleon, he's waiting for you."  
  
The invitation didn't include Illya, but it didn't specifically exclude him either, so he slipped through the automatic doors behind his partner into Alexander Waverly's private office.  
  
Waverly was the head of U.N.C.L.E., number one of section one. Still vigorous in his mid-60's, he was a forceful bulldog of a man, with bushy gray eyebrows and a precise British accent. His manner now, though, was quiet and subdued. He was strict with his agents. He lectured them and did his best to discipline them. He reminded them constantly that they were expendable and when it was necessary he sent them out to die.  
  
And he loved every one of them like a father.  
  
He was sitting at a large round table with a file folder in front of him. As they approached he looked up reluctantly.  
  
"Ah, yes, Mr. Solo. Please sit down."  
  
Solo sat and Kuryakin, beginning to feel slighted, remained standing.  
  
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Solo asked politely.  
  
"Um, yes," Waverly sighed. "I'm sorry, Napoleon, I'm afraid I have some grave news. We've lost Mr. Kuryakin."  
  
"Lost me?" Kuryakin asked in disbelief. Neither of the other men answered him or acknowledged his presence. Icy chills began to run up and down his spine.  
  
Solo was sitting very still. "I'm sorry, Sir. Lost?"  
  
"He's dead, Mr. Solo. Late last night, in the Hollywood Hills. He found and destroyed a Thrush research laboratory. Unfortunately, on his way down to the city, he lost control of his car and went off the road into a deep canyon. It was raining at the time and it is possible he was being pursued. The car exploded on impact. I'm sorry."  
  
"And did they find a body? Has it been positively identified?"  
  
"Yes, and yes," Waverly replied gravely. "There was not much left to identify, I'm afraid; however there were a few scraps of fabric that were quite distinctive. Also, his gun and communicator were found on the scene."  
  
"Someone else could have taken his gun and communicator," Solo pointed out calmly.  
  
Waverly sighed and shook his head. He could see that Solo was grasping at straws and he hated to have to belabor the point. "I'm sorry, Mr. Solo," he said again, "but the communicator at least was in Mr. Kuryakin's possession. I was talking to him at the time of the accident."  
  
Solo took a long moment to digest this, then nodded briskly and stood up. "Are you going to be assigning me another partner?" he asked politely.  
  
Kuryakin, standing unseen beside him, felt as though he had been slapped.  
  
Waverly peered up at Solo with a furrowed brow. "Not immediately, I think," he said. "Would you like some time off?"  
  
"What for?"  
  
The old man snorted, confused and exasperated. "I had rather expected you to be upset about Mr. Kuryakin."  
  
"So had I," Illya muttered unheard.  
  
Solo shrugged lightly. "Mr. Kuryakin was an agent. He knew when he took the job that he was expendable. Is there anything else, Sir? If not, I'm rather behind on my paperwork."  
  
Bemused, Waverly shook his head. "No, Mr. Solo, that was all I had to discuss with you at the moment."  
  
With a slight smile and a respectful half bow, Solo took his leave, pausing outside long enough to wink at the secretary. Kuryakin, miserably lost and alone, trailed in his wake. One part of his mind told him that following his erstwhile partner was an exercise in futility, but the sad fact was that he had nowhere else to go.  
  
Solo returned to the office they had shared, barely entering far enough for Illya to slip in behind him. The door slid closed behind them and Napoleon turned and thumbed off the control that operated it. For a long moment he stood still, head bowed, facing the door. Then, with a suddenness that caused Illya to jump, he spun and slammed his fist into the cold steel wall.  
  
Kuryakin stared in shock. He had never seen the easygoing American with his face so full of pain and rage. Solo hit the wall a second time and Illya heard the distinctive crack of bones.  
  
"Napoleon, stop!"  
  
It did no good. His partner couldn't hear him.  
  
Solo raised his fist to strike the wall again, oblivious to his bloody knuckles and darkening bruises. Alarmed, Illya reached out without thinking and . . .  
  
caught . . .  
  
Napoleon's . . .  
  
hand.  
  
The contact shocked both of them. It only lasted for a fraction of a second. Solo stood quietly, staring at his hand as if it belonged to someone else. Cautiously he reached out with both hands, feeling his way around the office like a blind man, but he met no resistance. Shaking, he retreated to his desk and lowered his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs.  
  
Illya stood, helpless and unseen, behind his left shoulder, dismayed and slightly ashamed that he should be the cause of this. "Napoleon, don't," he said in his silent voice. "You were right. I was expendable. I knew it all along."  
  
Long minutes passed before Solo finally regained his composure. Still he sat at his desk and shivered. Where did this icy cold come from? Was the air conditioner malfunctioning? It seemed as though it were emanating from the core of his very being. And he had a very definite feeling that Illya was standing beside him. It was almost funny. In life the young Russian had been so low key that most people could be physically in the room with him and not notice. Yet now that he was dead his presence was overwhelming.  
  
Solo remembered his cavalier attitude in Waverly's office and was appalled. He hoped his partner knew how he really felt. Feeling slightly foolish, he decided to speak to his friend.  
  
"Illya," he began.  
  
As suddenly as if someone had turned off a light switch the cold and the sense of a presence disappeared.  
  
  
  
  
  
Los Angeles County, CA  
  
It was hard to say what dragged him back to consciousness. There was a nearby rumble of machinery and the sound of voices, calling instructions back and forth. He was jammed down into a narrow gully, hidden beneath the branches and overhanging roots of chaparral bushes. His only view was a fractured picture of the sky.  
  
Illya Kuryakin tried to groan and found he didn't even have the strength for that. The walls of the gully constricted his chest and every shallow breath was an exercise in agony. His entire body was a mass of pain, so much so that he couldn't begin to identify individual injuries. His mouth was dry and he was desperately thirsty, but his clothes were completely soaked, whether from blood or sweat or rain water was impossible to tell.  
  
Someone walked by, so close that he could have touched them if he could have moved. Their passage showered him with a small avalanche of damp earth and tiny, sharp pebbles. He wanted to call out for help but just the effort involved in being conscious was making his head loop in dizzy circles. A huge, black, misshapen object came into the range of his vision. It was the wreck of his car, being hoisted out of the canyon on a winch. It was dangling, now, directly over his head. The sight of it suspended there gave him a sense of vertigo and he was filled with the conviction that it was about to fall on him and crush him even further into this open grave. Unable to retreat physically from the danger, he slipped back into unconsciousness with the sensation that he was falling into an endless pit.  
  
  
  
New York City, NY  
  
"Oh, Napoleon, what did you do to your hand?"  
  
Napoleon Solo glanced down at the bandages around his right hand. "I walked into a door," he lied dismissively. He was surrounded by a gaggle of concerned secretaries. Ordinarily he would have milked the situation for all it was worth.  
  
Ordinarily his partner wouldn't be dead.  
  
The crowded commissary was the last place he wanted to be, but the medical section had given him a strong dose of pain pills only with the understanding that he eat something with it. He had intended to grab a sandwich and a cup of coffee and retreat to his office but now that he was in the clutches of half a dozen women he decided to finish his meal first and then return to work.  
  
Even lost in his own quiet misery, Solo was able to pick out a fragment of a sentence from one of the tables behind him.  
  
" . . . rid of the damned little pinko bastard."  
  
Napoleon's blood began a slow boil. He didn't have to look to see who was speaking. He knew the voice and he knew the sentiment and both had come from a mediocre agent named Vince Martensen. Martensen was a born bully and a born toady. His philosophy of life was kick the little guy and then see if you can get the big guy to pat you on the back for doing it. Solo knew that Martensen had hassled Illya before and had wanted to confront him about it, but had let the matter go at his friend's insistence.  
  
Now, however, Illya was gone and still Martensen was attacking his memory. Like a knight defending a fallen comrade, Napoleon felt justified in taking up the gauntlet.  
  
He finished his sandwich and took his leave of the ladies without letting on that he had heard anything. On his way out of the commissary he happened to pass the table where Martensen and his cronies were sitting. Seeing Solo, Martensen attempted to rearrange his face into a look of sympathy.  
  
"I was sorry to hear about your partner," he lied unconvincingly.  
  
"Yes," Solo said graciously, "thank you. It looks as though I'm going to need a new partner."  
  
Martensen brightened at the unspoken suggestion. Napoleon Solo was the chief enforcement officer and the head of section two. Being teamed with him would be an incredible honor – an honor that had, in Martensen's opinion, been wasted for far too long on Kuryakin.  
  
"Did you have anyone in mind?" he asked, feigning casualness.  
  
"Oh, I might have," Solo hinted agreeably. "Did you have any plans this afternoon?"  
  
"Uh, no. No, nothing important. Why?"  
  
"I just thought that perhaps we could meet down in the gym in, say, half an hour. Maybe practice a little hand-to-hand combat? I'd like to get an idea what you're made of, Mr. Martensen."  
  
Martensen agreed readily and Solo left the cafeteria feeling terribly pleased.  
  
Hitting Martensen would be so much more satisfying than hitting his wall.  
  
  
  
Illya Kuryakin found himself once more in his office. Solo was gone and he was alone. He was beginning to be aware of subtle differences around him. It seemed as if he were in two places at once -- both in his office and not in his office. U.N.C.L.E. headquarters was somehow faintly darker than it should be while he himself began to be almost imperceptibly surrounded by light. It was a disconcerting phenomenon and he went in search of his partner with a nagging sense of urgency.  
  
The secretary in their outer office looked up in surprise as the door slid open and then closed again. Encouraged by her attention, Illya addressed her.  
  
"Miss Campbell, have you seen Mr. Solo?"  
  
She ignored him and continued to stare, wide-eyed, at the door. He moved closer and repeated his question. She shivered, pushed out of her chair and went to check the thermostat. Exasperated, Kuryakin decided to find Solo on his own.  
  
He stopped by a break room where several section two and three agents were gossiping over coffee.  
  
". . . can't believe he's already looking for another partner."  
  
"He isn't really?"  
  
"Really. He's got Martensen down in the gym now, running hand-to-hand combat drills."  
  
"Brrr. Did someone turn up the air conditioner?"  
  
Illya sighed and took his silent leave.  
  
He found Napoleon and Martensen facing each other across a floor mat. Martensen was bruised and his nose was bleeding. It was obvious that the chief enforcement officer was holding nothing back. In spite of the pummeling he was receiving, Martensen was as eager and excited as a little kid.  
  
Illya could feel the fury radiating off his partner, filling the air like electricity.  
  
"Napoleon, please," he tried futilely, "whatever he said, it isn't important. Listen to me, Napoleon! You've got to go back and look in the canyon."  
  
Martensen rushed his superior again, trying in vain to topple the older man. With a deceptive ease Napoleon slammed him to the mat hard enough to knock the wind out of him and make him see stars. As Solo straightened back up a movement caught the corner of his eye. He looked across the gym and froze.  
  
A familiar, slight blond figure stood looking back at him.  
  
"Illya!"  
  
Martensen, struggling to breathe on the mat at Napoleon's feet, neither saw anything nor heard his superior's whispered invocation.  
  
He was there! Solo could swear that for just an instant he was there. The picture stood out clearly in Napoleon's mind. He closed his eyes and saw it again like a snapshot. The Russian was tattered and bloody and incredibly filthy. A dark, swollen knot stood out on his forehead and darkened his blue eyes.  
  
Oddly, he was wearing a Thrush uniform, the stylized bird on the pocket clear amid the grime. He was gazing intently at Solo and his mouth was moving, but no sound came out.  
  
Martensen stirred at Napoleon's feet and Solo snapped out of his trance. Suddenly he was tired of this exercise. He wanted to be rid of Martensen and go somewhere where he could be alone. He stepped off the mat, signaling that the sparring was ended and Martensen dragged himself up to a sitting position and grinned at Solo ingratiatingly.  
  
"What do you think, Sir?"  
  
"Hmm?" Solo, distracted, took a moment to figure out what the other man was talking about. "Oh, not bad. I think if you keep practicing regularly, work at it very hard for the next ten years or so, someday you might be half the man that Illya Kuryakin was."  
  
With that the senior agent turned on his heel and walked away, leaving his hopeful would-be partner gaping on the floor.  
  
  
  
Solo sat alone in his office, telling himself that he was losing his mind. The lights were dimmed and he was staring unseeing at the blank wall in front of him, his mind on the complex, difficult, often exasperating young Russian who had so inexplicably become his closest friend. Without even realizing he was doing it, he picked up a pencil and began to draw idly on a blank pad on his desk.  
  
A sound from the hallway reached him and he jerked like a man startled out of a light doze. Had he been asleep? He hadn't realized it, if he had. He reached up to rub his forehead and found he was holding a pencil. He laid it down, then pulled his note pad over to look at it.  
  
Cold chills ran up and down his spine.  
  
Most of the paper was covered with meaningless loops and squiggles. In the morass of scribbles a single line stood out, written in Illya Kuryakin's precise hand.  
  
Look in the canyon . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Los Angeles County, CA  
  
In his unmarked grave Illya Kuryakin climbed slowly to a level of awareness just below conscious. He did not open his eyes for that was far beyond his strength. He was aware of the late-night chill pervading his soaking body. There was a taste of dust in his mouth and he could feel, behind the constant pain that had possessed him, the relatively minor annoyance of small, sharp rocks cutting into his skin. Somewhere in the near distance a night bird was calling. From far away came the sounds of the city and occasionally the ground around him would rumble with the sound of a vehicle on the road above his head. It seemed as though he lay there for hours listening to the world going on without him. In reality it was only a matter of minutes before he sank once more into oblivion.  
  
  
  
New York City, NY  
  
Solo walked down a winding mountain road. A mighty city rose in the distance below him and above the heavens were lit with the light of a million stars. He approached a sharp curve. The road here was criss- crossed with skid marks and a freshly repaired section of guardrail overlooked a steep precipice.  
  
With his heart in his throat he stepped up and peered out over the drop off.  
  
The hill beneath was rocky and barren, save for a line of brush that snaked its way down from right to left, from the edge of the road to the floor of the valley.  
  
Illya Kuryakin stood silent and unmoving beside the line of brush.  
  
He was wearing a tattered Thrush uniform and even from a distance Solo could see how badly hurt he was. The brilliant starlight shone in his white-gold hair and threw his sober Slavic features into sharp relief.  
  
His voice sounded in Solo's head.  
  
"Napoleon, I waited. Why didn't you come?"  
  
"Illya!" Solo shouted. His voice came from his chest and sounded hoarse. "Hang on! I'm coming!"  
  
He climbed the guardrail and began to pick his way down the hill. As he drew near the scene retreated before him, so that he found it impossible to approach his friend. He shouted in frustration and the sound of his own voice echoing around a small room awakened him.  
  
He was still at headquarters, sleeping in one of the small, Spartan rooms that were kept ready for agents' use. Thrashing about while under the spell of his nightmare he had kicked the covers off and the room was so cold he could see his breath. There was a feeling of anxiety, of urgent pleading in the air.  
  
Then and there Napoleon Solo knew with absolute certainty that if he was ever to have any peace he was going to have to go to California and visit the canyon where his partner had died.  
  
  
  
Los Angeles, CA  
  
Solo had crossed the continent in record time. By pulling strings and calling in favors from old friends in the military he had gained the use of an air force jet. Juarez Smith, a representative from the local U.N.C.L.E. office, met him at the airport and stood beside him now in the icy confines of the LA morgue.  
  
Solo studied, almost dispassionately, the blackened and misshapen corpse on the table before them. Obviously this man had been the same size and build as Kuryakin, and a few clumps of white blond hair still clung to the victim's skull. Beyond that, it bore little resemblance to the Russian. But then, to be honest, it bore little resemblance to a human being.  
  
"I have what's left of his clothing over here, if you'd care to look," the coroner was saying. "There were some miniaturized tools sewn into the jeans and one seam of the turtleneck is sewn with a single filament of wire rather than with thread."  
  
Napoleon shook his head impatiently. He could feel no trace of Illya's presence here and no empathy for these few, sad remains. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to see where the accident took place."  
  
Smith drove him out there in a battered Jeep. Solo got out of the car and shuddered as he found himself standing on the scene of his nightmare.  
  
It was all there – the curve in the road, the tangle of tire marks, the newly mended guardrail. Solo stepped up and looked over the drop off, following with his eye the line of chaparral bushes snaking their was across a rocky and otherwise barren landscape.  
  
"What's with those bushes?"  
  
Smith looked down at them. "What do you mean?"  
  
"How come there are bushes there when there's nothing else growing here?"  
  
The local agent shrugged. "Probably there's a little arroyo there and the bushes are growing along the edge of it."  
  
"An arroyo?"  
  
"A dry gully that becomes a creek when it rains. Big ones are dangerous. A few people drown in them every year when they fill suddenly. A little one like that would be just enough to provide moisture for a few bushes to survive. Why?"  
  
Without answering Solo climbed the guardrail and headed for the spot where Illya had been standing in his dream. It was a steep climb and he picked his way carefully. A voice in his head was urging him to hurry while another, a lightly accented Russian voice, was exhorting caution.  
  
"What are you looking for," Smith asked curiously.  
  
"I don't know," Napoleon told him. "I only know I have to look."  
  
He reached his destination and began searching, pulling aside the underbrush feverishly. There was indeed an arroyo hidden beneath them and in that arroyo was . . .  
  
Juarez Smith had come up behind him to peer over Solo's shoulder.  
  
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "It's a Thrush guard."  
  
"No," Solo said in a shaky voice, "it's Illya Kuryakin."  
  
  
  
Solo sat quietly beside his partner's bed in a private room in the intensive care ward at LA County General Hospital. A musical warbling inserted itself into the rhythm of beeps and pings that make up the background noises in any medical facility. Napoleon took out his communicator and opened the channel.  
  
"Mr. Solo? Waverly here. Mr. Solo, the Los Angeles office is telling me a most improbable story."  
  
"It's true, Sir."  
  
"Indeed?" There was a long moment of silence. "Excellent. What is Mr. Kuryakin's condition?"  
  
"Serious but stable." Solo glanced over at his partner. It had been a very close thing. Another hour, the doctors said, maybe only another half-hour, and all he would have retrieved would have been a corpse. "He has multiple fractures and a severe concussion and he's suffering from shock and exposure and loss of blood. He's alive, though, and I'm told there's an excellent chance he'll stay that way."  
  
"Very good. Keep me informed. Waverly out."  
  
Solo closed his pen down and glanced over once more to find the Russian's blue eyes open and watching him.  
  
Napoleon grinned. "Hi there, stranger. How do you feel?"  
  
Kuryakin tried to answer and could not. Solo fed him a few slivers of ice from a pitcher on the bedside table and after a moment Illya tried again.  
  
"What kept you?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry! Were you in a hurry?"  
  
The Russian snorted faintly and his eyes drifted closed. Napoleon thought he had gone back to sleep, but after a moment he looked up again.  
  
"Napoleon?" he asked softly.  
  
"Hmm? What is it?" Solo leaned close so he could hear. There was the faintest glint of mischief behind Kuryakin's inscrutable gaze.  
  
"Do you really think I'm twice the man Martensen is?"  
  
Solo started and stared at the Russian as the full import of the question sank in. Slowly he relaxed and grinned down at his friend. He reached out and brushed the back of his knuckles lightly against Illya's pale cheek.  
  
"You'll do, Tovarich," he said gently, "you'll do."  
  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
